Previous Entry | Top Menu | Next Entry   Mother Works the Nursing Home Crowd By Michael S. Smith  

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  The only hard part of this visit home Was going for Grandma, Tucked away with a roommate insane As she would have been If she could hear or remember anything Of the last ten years.   The sturdy brick facade stood solid brown On crew cut groomed grass, An institutional still life assuring Anyone who cared Whatever hid inside was in order.   We opened doors that sounded an alarm, But Mother depressed The red button and we walked quietly Down the narrow hall,   Which reeked of vomit, incontinence and bleach, And against whose walls Inmates leaned like scarecrows without gardens.   Some talked to themselves, Several drooled or shook, one stared straight down.   I looked straight ahead.   We marched as quickly as Mother's pace allowed, For she spoke to them,   Every one of them, whether they understood Or not, even touched Them and patted the rocking woman's back &   She chatted warmly With a legless man who likely never Talked with anyone else. At last we'd negotiated the corridor   Of despair and reached Her mother's dank cell. We had to yell and tug her, wheel her out And let her show off, Escorted like a queen by her retinue   Of family, upstaging The ranks of peers in humble posture up Against the gray walls. But Mother loved them all and they knew it. I had to escape, Like Grandma, but Mother took her sweet time.    

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